Loser
by Connor McDermott
Summary: Connor McDermott is a young man who has been chosen to help save everyone and everything in existence. However, psychological chains leave him almost completely unable to unlock his true potential. Can he change that in time to help everyone?
1. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

 **THINK OF EACH "CHAPTER" AS A PAGE OF A SHORT STORY, NOT AN ACTUAL CHAPTER.**

 **I just wanted to write that first before giving you the actual author's note. I'm writing this at a very odd time in my life now. A time where some of my fears were coming true. Fears of becoming an outcast to society. Of being a loser. Of being socially unacceptable. Of being a weirdo.**

 **And I'm going to level with you a bit. Chances are, if you're reading this, you are a bit of an outcast. You are a bit of a loser. You are a bit socially unacceptable. You're kind of a weirdo.**

 **Let's be real. What kind of normal person reads this, where someone places his or herself (in some regard), into a story filled with Disney characters that can cast magic spells and people that are filled with light and darkness instead of blood and organs?**

 **In what world would you be able to bring up that you write fanfiction to a coworker and not have him or her talk about you behind your back? Certainly not the one we live in.**

 **And I hated that. I refused to look it in the eyes. The thought of becoming the kid who no one sat with at lunch terrified me. But now, I think I'm starting to realize that this might just be who I am. And you know what? Maybe that's not so bad. And maybe I'm not alone.**

 **Everyday, I see at least 10 new stories come out for the Kingdom Hearts thread alone. That means at least 10 people start deciding to do what they've wanted to do since day one (but were too afraid to). And that number is growing. But fanfiction will only do so much. It can't get you paid. Especially if it's poorly written. And even in the best ones I've read, there's room for improvement.**

 **And there's always going to be a room for improvement. So that's what we should do. Strive for better. Because if we do, one day, this weird little hobby just might become a weird little job.**

 **If you're reading this, if you daydream about what it would be like to interact with the people from this universe, then I encourage you, no, I beg you. Start writing. Write everyday. Wring your brain dry of ideas for stories. And then wring it some more. And don't just limit yourself to one franchise, one type of story. Branch out, experiment, get weird.**

 **Let's prove everyone wrong. Let's see if they'll laugh when you're writing the screenplay for the next cult classic. That's how Max Landis (Google him) got started. Will that be how you start?**


	2. Chapter 1

Hi, my name is Connor McDermott. And currently, I'm fucking dying.

You see, Death, in the form of some creepy looking old man, currently has me in a chokehold, and well it's the darndest thing, but…

I can't seem to get out. And he doesn't really seem intent on letting me breathe, so yeah. That's why I'm dying.

I really want him to go away, believe me, I do, but I don't exactly have the best range of motion at the moment. My neck is kind of being pinned against a boulder with a gigantic key. The only thing that I'm seeing is that old man, and even he's starting to look blurry.

It's so quiet.

It's so quiet that you can hear pebbles falling the longer he's pinning me to this wall. But inside, inside me, my mind was a nightclub, serving fear, adrenaline, and cyanide margaritas to all my brain cells. Whatever happens, I just don't want to die. Not to him. I don't want the last thing to smell to be my grandma's retirement home.

The crooked smile. The greasy facial hair. The wardrobe. The mouthwash-gargling voice. His physical strength. So much of him stood out so much from any other old person. And yet he still had the signature scent, only amplified, I guess since I'm running on pure adrenaline and all.

Shit, I guess this really is the end. I'm starting to lose consciousness; I guess I'll be seeing y'all later.

Actually, let me start over. I still got a bit of time, and this story is a bit confusing as it is.


	3. Chapter 2

We're sorry; the brain you've reached has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again.

Oh, sorry about that. My brain is currently jumpstarting an idea, but the damn cables are wet from all of the sweat on my brow. College Level Physics tends to do that to a person. Especially when that person is taking their final exam.

My name? Well, according to my teacher, the name on my paper says "Connor McDermott", but all I see on there is "Desperate Idiot".

And like any desperate idiot, I knew that there was only one thing that I could do if I was going to pass this test. So I got to work on my new game plan. But to do it my mind needed some real training. I had the mathematical part of my brain run some calculations to determine how much time I had to search for a good, easy to cheat off of candidate. I had my eyes running suicides until they found said candidate. I had my id holding off my superego long enough for me to get what I needed. It wasn't doing a very good job. I could still hear my superego's echoes looming through my brain.

"DON'T DO IT" "STOP"

Needless to say, I couldn't. Not when I was this close.

"Ok folks, time is up, please pass your papers forward and have a great summer."

I felt 50 pounds heavier after he said that. I couldn't tell if the lump in my throat was a tumor coming to take my life or my soul crying at the disappointment I've become. Either way, it wasn't welcome. Not in public at least. I'd have to swallow it for now and wait a little later in the day to vomit it into tears and self-loathing.

I walked over to give him my abortion of a final exam, regret filling the sweat beads of my forehead. The floor tiles never looked more ugly than they did that day. I slowly scan the man in front of me like a robot about to attack its prey. He's a bit taller than me. Around 6'2''. Looks like a mix of Bert from Sesame Street and an anorexic George Costanza.

I'm hoping to only glance at him for a few seconds. If only it were that easy. He pulls my gaze into his like a full on wrestling match. And I'm about to tap out.

"All done?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Have a great summer!"

"Yeah, you too."

I can't believe you messed that up as badly as you did. I thought those hours you spent on YouTube goofing off would have helped out. Maybe Jen was right.

"I just don't get you Connor, you know? You've talked about all these things you want to do in your life, but all you do is sit around all day. I just…you need to get a grip on reality."

Maybe I am a failure.

I guess I should celebrate my failure with the Dinner of Losers then.

McDonald's. Beautiful.


	4. Chapter 3

God must've cooked this meal specifically to celebrate my newfound status as King of the Losers, because this is the worst food I have ever tasted.

The burger tastes like soil; the fries are soggier than Jen's vagina; they even fucked up the Sweet Tea.

How do you fuck up a Sweet Tea?

You know, I never complain at fast food restaurants if the food sucks, but this is unacceptable. You're pouring a drink, you literally have ONE JOB, and it's the simplest one ever. How on Earth do you fuck it up?

"Uh, excuse me?"

God. Did they put rat poison in my drink? It feels like my intestines are in a cat fight with a drag queen, and the drag queen is definitely winning.

"Hi, um, can I actually get a different Sweet Tea, I think there's something in this one."

Just breathe, Connor. Breathe.

"Um, yeah sure. What do you think it was?"

Please God. I'll settle for any miracle you've got. Just don't make me puke on the countertop. Please God, don't make me THAT guy.

"I don't really know for sure, but something tasted really gross in there, definitely didn't taste like Sweet Tea."

Everything feels 50 pounds lighter. I feel like I'm on shrooms. Only thing that's missing is the color show.

"Did it have an odd texture to it?"

My God, it's so hot. I'm legitimately panting like a dog.

"Uh, yeah, a little bit."

Woof.

"Let me check the machine real quick."

Why would you say that? You're going to let paranoia take over Open Mic Night at the Disappointment Theatre. You NEVER want to let paranoia take over.

"Oh shit, sir I am SO sorry. There was something wrong with the machine."

That clip from Family Guy where Chris and his friends take mushrooms is on infinite loop in my brain right now, and it's playing faster and faster.

"You alright, sir?"

Someone please make it stop.

"Yeah, why?"

I'm actually scared.

"You're drenched in sweat, and you look very sick."

"Oh."

"Do you need help, do you need me to call you an ambulance?"

"N-no that's fine. Urmm. Can I, can I just get a refund?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Wait… nah, actually, I-I think I'll give you a refund instead."

There's no way I just said that. I had definitely thought that, but there's no way I actually said that.

But what a refund it was though. I sprayed that refund all over the countertop, that guy's uniform, it even hit the Sweet Tea machine. I think I yelled "Lebron!" at one point when I was aiming for the trashcan.

That was a Rockstar's Refund. That's what that was. Kurt Cobain told one of his friends when he was fourteen that he was going to become a superstar, get rich and famous, and then kill himself in a blaze of glory like Jimi Hendrix. Then he did.

Well aren't I lucky.

I get to skip steps 1 and 2.


End file.
